and forth, and he took pity on her. “You’re carrying too much, lad,” he said, letting the term slide mockingly off his tongue.
She glared at him, with that singular lack of subservience that would have unmasked her sooner or later if she’d stayed on at the inn. “I’m fine,” she said, hoisting her bundles up higher. “Sir,” she added with only a faint shimmer of contempt.
He considered taking the parcels from her. He suspected that might engender a tug-of-war, and while he would appreciate the chance to put his hands on her, he decided the time was far from opportune. “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. “It isn’t much farther.”
“It better not be,” she muttered under her breath, mistakenly assuming he wouldn’t hear.
He smiled to himself. He had unnaturally sharp hearing, a leftover from his days in Arabia, where the faintest sound might make a difference between life and death, and there was very little he missed.
She wasn’t happy about being dragged away from the house and loaded down with paraphernalia. He knew that by the disgruntled little sniffs she emitted every now and then, by the occasional growl, by the way her ill-shod feet slipped on the narrow, pebble-strewn path down to the beach. She probably wouldn’t be feeling any more cheerful once they reached their remote destination.
The path grew sharply steeper, and he heard her intake of breath as she stumbled once more. He slowed his pace deliberately, wondering if she was going to take a headlong plunge toward the sea.
“Where are we going?” she finally demanded in what she probably considered a subservient voice. It simply sounded irritable to Phelan’s ears.
“To a very remote, peaceful spot of seaside. It’s called Dead Man’s Cove,” Phelan said, slowing his pace still further in deference to the faintly breathless sound of her voice.
“Charming,” she replied, once more forgetting her place.
He smiled to himself again. “This part of the coast used to be populated by wreckers. You’ve heard of them, no doubt. Most of the English coast has been plagued with their sort at one time or another. When times are bad, people do what they must to survive, and to feed their children.”
“Even if it includes luring a ship onto the rocks and drowning other people’s children to line their own pockets?” Julian said sharply.
“Even so. I doubt anyone particularly wanted to commit cold-blooded murder. They were interested in the cargo of the ship, not the lives of the passengers.” He allowed himself to stop and glance back at her, slightly higher up on the steeply descending path.
“And did they save those passengers’ lives once they’d lured their ships to their doom?” she asked, clutching the heavy picnic basket in hands that looked too delicate for such rough work.
“I gather that in this particular corner of the world theysimply clubbed them on the head to make sure there were no witnesses.”
She shivered in the warm sunlight, and she glanced past him with faint anxiety, as if she expected the wreckers to suddenly reappear.
“Don’t worry,” Phelan said. “The wreckers stopped their profession more than half a century ago. If any of their descendants live on, they doubtless are as law-abiding and God-fearing as you and I.”
“That’s not necessarily a recommendation,” she muttered.
“True enough for me. I expect you’re far more conventional than you first appear.”
She lifted her head to stare at him in unguarded surprise. “I don’t appear conventional?” she asked.
“Not particularly.”
“Well,” she said briskly, “you’d be greatly surprised.”
He turned and continued down the narrow pathway. “I am seldom surprised, young Julian. I am jaded beyond belief, and it takes a very great deal to amaze me. How do you intend to do it? By proving that you really do appear conventional? Or that beneath your slightly odd demeanor you’re an absolute
She glared at him, with that singular lack of subservience that would have unmasked her sooner or later if she’d stayed on at the inn. “I’m fine,” she said, hoisting her bundles up higher. “Sir,” she added with only a faint shimmer of contempt.
He considered taking the parcels from her. He suspected that might engender a tug-of-war, and while he would appreciate the chance to put his hands on her, he decided the time was far from opportune. “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. “It isn’t much farther.”
“It better not be,” she muttered under her breath, mistakenly assuming he wouldn’t hear.
He smiled to himself. He had unnaturally sharp hearing, a leftover from his days in Arabia, where the faintest sound might make a difference between life and death, and there was very little he missed.
She wasn’t happy about being dragged away from the house and loaded down with paraphernalia. He knew that by the disgruntled little sniffs she emitted every now and then, by the occasional growl, by the way her ill-shod feet slipped on the narrow, pebble-strewn path down to the beach. She probably wouldn’t be feeling any more cheerful once they reached their remote destination.
The path grew sharply steeper, and he heard her intake of breath as she stumbled once more. He slowed his pace deliberately, wondering if she was going to take a headlong plunge toward the sea.
“Where are we going?” she finally demanded in what she probably considered a subservient voice. It simply sounded irritable to Phelan’s ears.
“To a very remote, peaceful spot of seaside. It’s called Dead Man’s Cove,” Phelan said, slowing his pace still further in deference to the faintly breathless sound of her voice.
“Charming,” she replied, once more forgetting her place.
He smiled to himself again. “This part of the coast used to be populated by wreckers. You’ve heard of them, no doubt. Most of the English coast has been plagued with their sort at one time or another. When times are bad, people do what they must to survive, and to feed their children.”
“Even if it includes luring a ship onto the rocks and drowning other people’s children to line their own pockets?” Julian said sharply.
“Even so. I doubt anyone particularly wanted to commit cold-blooded murder. They were interested in the cargo of the ship, not the lives of the passengers.” He allowed himself to stop and glance back at her, slightly higher up on the steeply descending path.
“And did they save those passengers’ lives once they’d lured their ships to their doom?” she asked, clutching the heavy picnic basket in hands that looked too delicate for such rough work.
“I gather that in this particular corner of the world theysimply clubbed them on the head to make sure there were no witnesses.”
She shivered in the warm sunlight, and she glanced past him with faint anxiety, as if she expected the wreckers to suddenly reappear.
“Don’t worry,” Phelan said. “The wreckers stopped their profession more than half a century ago. If any of their descendants live on, they doubtless are as law-abiding and God-fearing as you and I.”
“That’s not necessarily a recommendation,” she muttered.
“True enough for me. I expect you’re far more conventional than you first appear.”
She lifted her head to stare at him in unguarded surprise. “I don’t appear conventional?” she asked.
“Not particularly.”
“Well,” she said briskly, “you’d be greatly surprised.”
He turned and continued down the narrow pathway. “I am seldom surprised, young Julian. I am jaded beyond belief, and it takes a very great deal to amaze me. How do you intend to do it? By proving that you really do appear conventional? Or that beneath your slightly odd demeanor you’re an absolute
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